


Call Me Crazy (But I Know You)

by OfHealingLove



Category: Durarara!!
Genre: F/M, Gen, Kind of a parody, M/M, Manipulation, Mentions of past abuse, Mind Games, Multi, OC and Izaya get along in the worst way, Oh, Orihara Izaya is his own warning, Pairings are undecided, Psychopathology & Sociopathy, SI/OC as Kamichika Rio, Shizuo is a Good Bro, Slice of Life, but I plan to have a bit of everything, even though she hates him, may or may not follow plot, maybe? - Freeform, oc is a little shit, suicide warning, these tags are getting out of control, this is kind of a self-insert, thorough discussions of humanity and psychology
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-08
Updated: 2018-03-29
Packaged: 2019-03-28 12:14:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13903812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OfHealingLove/pseuds/OfHealingLove
Summary: Hadn’t I specified that when I was reincarnated, I wanted my soul to be scrubbed? To not be me? But for fuck’s sake, I’m now Kamichika Rio, enroute to meet Orihara Izaya for a mindfuck of the century.Fuck.Someone who only wants a peaceful death ends up in Durarara!! in a compromising position when she turns the tables on Orihara Izaya with a psychological analysis. It doesn't even remotely get better from there.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This is a repost AND a revamp of my story on FFN, Second Chance. These same renovations will be happening over there. I'm hoping to get the first three chapters up over tonight as well as here, but I can't promise anything. Here's hoping!
> 
> I don't expect this story to have much success, honestly, but any kudos or comments would be great! Just to know that it's appreciated at all. Thanks, and I hope you enjoy!

There are a lot of things that can cause hopelessness: failure, impotency, depression, loss, pain, and so on. Usually, what causes the hopelessness can be healed, forgotten, or otherwise passed over so that hope can once again spring eternal, as they always say. The thing about humans is that we do, somehow, seem to always find hope.

Hope springs eternal, yes. But sometimes, hopelessness springs just as eternally.

I’ve always been predisposed to suicide. It just came with my brain chemistry, the mental illness I was simply born with. There was no real ‘childhood’ for me; I wasn’t a old soul, but there was always a sort of jadedness about me, I think—adults liked to call it maturity—that drove the other kids away from me. At least that was my perception; when my parents worried about a lack of friends, the teachers were either blind and said that I did have them, or they simply lied to my parents. Or maybe I did have friends after all—I was six at the time, and it’s been well over a decade since, so forgive me if I’ve forgotten the details.

With that jadedness comes a lack of hope for the future, and so at a very young age, I made the first attempt at taking my life. It was a failure, of course, because of my own internal inability to just let go. I thought I was ready to die, but I wasn’t. But as the years passed, as more and more tragedies heaped upon me, as therapy brought my self-awareness and intuition to soaring heights, and life shattered every rose-colored illusion that was the naivety of youth, I finally reached a breaking point.

I was diagnosed with brain cancer, just as my mother had seven years ago. Even with my awareness of symptoms through experience with my mom dying, we still only managed to catch it at Stage IV, just like my mom.

Just like my mom, I had brain surgery.

Just like my mom, I was told the best they could do was make me comfortable.

Absolutely unlike my mom, knowing I was going to die and having already looked death in the eye before, I found that I was ready. I had no legacy to leave behind, no children or job or anything. I asked one of my friends to finish the books I had failed to finish and publish. I made sure my pets went to good homes, the new owners thoroughly vetted. I updated my will, and with the leftover money from selling my pets, I bought a gun. The state where I lived made it absurdly easy.

I considered all the ways I could die. A jump from the bridge I had sat on a few years ago didn’t seem right. Pills had failed me before and I wasn’t going to risk it now. Bleeding out was too messy, too painful, and came with the risk of being saved at the last minute.

So I bought my gun, trekked out to the greenbelt not too far from my apartment complex, and found the place I would breathe my last.

But I sat there for a little while, not immediately putting the gun to my head and pulling the trigger. This wasn’t half-cocked, and it wasn’t like I wasn’t going to die anyways. This was me, at last, taking control of my life. I hadn’t been capable of so many things because of my severe mental illness and I had always wanted to live the life that so many other people could. I wanted to work, to go to school, to make something of myself, to make my notorious ambition and drive lift me to high places.

Instead, I had been mentally crippled from birth and was forced to watch the world pass me by while I scraped by here and there to make my impression on the world, to not leave without a trace.

And now my mark on the world would be as a statistic and a smear of blood on the tree behind me. But I believed in reincarnation, had read way too many self-insert fics online because they gave me hope that maybe I would be reincarnated—not as myself, never as myself—and the new me, the new body with my soul, now their soul, would be able to reach the heights that I had always wanted for myself.

I considered karma for a moment. Well, hopefully I done enough right in this world to get my soul a step up from this life.

And then, finally, I lifted the gun to my head. I said a few words, mostly apologies to those who were already expecting my death but not like this, and then pulled the trigger.

* * *

 

I remember all of this like a dream, and then my eyes snap open.

All I see is the crotch of some guy who’s kneeling over me, but he’s leaning forward and speaking in rapid fire Japanese, which is much more than I could hope to comprehend. I pause, blink. This is not death, of that I am certain.

_But why?_ I wonder through a fuzzy mind. _Why am I not dead?_

And why the fuck is this boisterous pig who really needs to learn about personal space speaking in Japanese? I’m an American, though since 2016 it’s not something I’ve been proud of, and—

A skidding of wheels and a violent turn to the left makes me realize I’m in a car. Things are moving too fast, I can’t make sense of this, I’m supposed to be dead and god dammit, have I been kidnapped, no, I felt the gun against my temple, I remember my index finger pulling—

A rush of memories, thoughts, and information hits my brain like an eighteen wheeler.

_A mysterious sender of pictures of her father with a younger woman, hugging and kissing and looking all-around very happy-_

_-her father was not faithful to her mother, he was seeing someone else-_

_-pictures of the woman and her father delivered through the mailbox-_

_-her mother didn’t care and acted like everything was just fine-_

_-a man named Nakura, who was just like her, he said, “Let’s disappear together”-_

_-meeting this Nakura, who wasn’t actually Nakura, the smell of chloroform-_

_-being dragged into a van-_

When I open my eyes again, after not having realized that they had even closed, I can understand the man—men—who are speaking.

“Job’s gonna pay a lot, right?”

The voice makes me flinch. Vaguely, vaguely, _vaguely_ I can hear that the voice is familiar, not to the memories but to me. It shouldn’t be. I know I haven’t met this man before or any of the men my memories are telling me I’m in the car with.

But I’ve seen them.

I twitch, just testing my theory. Legs: immobile at the shin, sticky-feeling. Arms: same, but behind my back. Mouth: dry, tastes too sweet, like chemicals, unable to move lips.

If this is what I think it is, god fuck me, because hadn’t I specified that when I was reincarnated, I wanted my soul to be scrubbed? To not be _me?_

And no, I’m not me, not technically, but for fuck’s sake, I’m Kamichika Rio, enroute to meet Orihara Izaya for a mindfuck of the century.

_Fuck._

 


	2. The Oldest Trick in the Book

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things with Izaya do not go as planned.

The only thing I can suppose I can say I’m grateful for is that with the flood of Rio’s memories, I’m distracted enough to focus on getting through the present before having a major freak out and trying to figure all of this utter existentialist bullshit out.

All I know is that in this moment, given the wild swerving and screeching of the car, Celty is probably en route.

The car comes to a sudden halt and I immediately know that I should close my eye and pretend to still be unconscious until the men are outside brawling with Celty, who I also know will kick their asses pretty efficiently. My second thought is that I should try to escape, to not see Orihara Izaya, who will likely fuck with me to the best of his ability. He had literally caused Rio in canon to commit suicide—the only thing that had saved her was an interfering Celty.

A sudden rush of anger comes to me, burning in my chest like scalding water that comes up as bile against my throat. In the show, it had been a very abrupt introduction to Izaya’s character. Also succinct and to the point, immediately showing in bright glowing neon fucking letters “THIS IS THE ANTAGONIST!”

Which, ultimately, he was.

But as I’m hearing Celty outside kicking ass, if you ignore the fact that this is a scene out of an anime and simply take into account that Izaya was a predator who had literally caused a girl to nearly die because he found it interesting to watch her reaction, it’s so disgusting I feel like I want to vomit. Rio’s what, fifteen, sixteen? I don’t remember her canon age at this point, but I know one thing for sure: in another world, another life, a predator preyed on me in a different but equally as damaging way.

And while I can’t hope to outwit someone like Izaya—I’m not a sociopath, I’m not that kind of scheming villain, and my mind simply doesn’t work that way—I can, for sure, mess him up a little by _not_ being the person I inhabit, by making him think that innocent, pliable Kamichika Rio who just wanted to die to hurt her parents had played him hard.

Whether this is some kind of afterlife, or a really weird, meta-type of reincarnation—I can’t help but wonder if maybe those self-insert fics had an unknown grain of truth to them, but I really hope not because _I am still me and I do not_ want _to be me_ —or if I had somehow botched the job and the remaining tumors in my brain are making me dream vividly on my deathbed, I know one thing.

This is way too good of a chance to pass up to stick it to a guy who thinks himself invincible. And maybe he is, but the likelihood is that no matter how he denies it, he’s just as human as I am and a knife through the ribcage will bleed blood as red as mine. He is human, he does have faults and make mistakes, and I am the anomaly in this situation that can take him down a peg or, at least, try to.

The last time I faced off with a sociopath, I was just as vulnerable as Rio was to Izaya, but I think I’ve learned plenty of their tricks by now, know better than to fall for their bullshit. Also, if I remember correctly, I’m actually _older_ than Izaya despite the agelessness anime characters seem to be drawn with.

So, as something wild and otherworldly screeches in my ear—Celty, who else—I make my decision. I’m going to face the villain and see what I can do to, even if only slightly, get some revenge for the other girls he’s hurt and manipulated in order to study them under his microscope.

* * *

When Celty opens the door to the back of the van, I’m wide awake and my mind is clear. I’m already forming words to say, both in action and and reaction to whatever he’ll present me with. I’m coming down with both feet because if I’m lucky, this will be the last time I ever have to deal with him or anyone similar.

But I don’t want to tip Celty off to a change in demeanor. It would only take one inquisitive text to Izaya for all of this to become a complete disaster, so when she taps a message on her phone telling me I need to come with her, I just nod my head and comply.

I loved Celty in the show, but right now I’m too pissed off with white hot rage at Izaya to contemplate speaking much with her, even in parting, not even considering the ramifications of acting out of character. Watching the unfamiliar and yet familiar of Ikebukuro skyline as we cross an overpass, I focus on holding on and enjoying the view.

I don’t really know how long this is going to last or when I’m going to actually be dead—I almost feel like it could kick in at any moment—so the air, though smoggy compared to my hometown’s, is a nice coolness against my face, a reminder that for now, I am alive.

We arrive at the preordained building and Celty taps out another message, telling me that this is where her job ends and to go to the rooftop for the person waiting for me. I nod meekly and comply yet again.

At the door leading out of the building and onto the roof, I suddenly am assaulted by nerves. This could be bad. I could be making a horrible decision here. I almost want to turn tail and just leave, a sudden fright of selfish cowardice. This man is a sociopath—if I threatened him too much, if I was too bold, would he really not dare to hurt me? This place is a suicide spot, though you wouldn’t know it from the way nothing seems to be cordoned off, and what’s to say the willing suicide from canon couldn’t turn into a homicidal push?

They’d never know, and Izaya wouldn’t care.

And then I remind myself that I’m already dead, it doesn’t really matter, this place is fictional, and I really want to tear Izaya a new one. So with steady, calm hands, I push open the door and walk out onto the moonlit rooftop.

I know Izaya comes from behind, so I simply walk over to the railing that overlooks the alley and look down.

…Whoa.

That’s a lot of stories that my thighs hadn’t even registered. Rio must stay pretty in-shape despite her depression. I automatically step back and at the same time scold myself. That was a tell and I definitely won’t put it past Izaya to notice from wherever he is.

A few seconds of observation later, a sickeningly friendly voice calls out, “Mazenda-san?”

I grit my teeth. What teenager wouldn’t fall for this? Nonetheless, I turn around to greet the voice, and though I want to call out in return, “Yes, Orihara Izaya?” I don’t. However, I can’t force anything but a stormy expression at the moment and simply say irritably, “Yeah?”

Izaya comes into view. “It’s Nakura, from the chatroom,” he says patiently with a smile on his face, sinister only because I know his true nature. And disgusting.

Oh, I can see how he pulls in his little projects. Just like another sociopath I knew, he’s handsome—heartbreakingly so. He stands, tall and lean, almond-shaped eyes and messy, bad-boy haircut. But I don’t spend much time acknowledging it; it was only another blessing to the cursed.

I close my eyes briefly. I don’t know how I appear to him, but I know what I feel. I’m furious. Just confirming the good looks he’d been given in the anime makes me so fucking angry.

Suddenly, I don’t even know how I’m going to contain this fury. _Just fucking kids,_ I think. _Could have easily been_ me.

 _It_ was _me._

I’ve hesitated too long. “Are you alright?” he asks, perfunctorily and I know he doesn’t care, is just imitating what he’s learned through observation throughout life.

I gather myself.

“You know, it’s funny you ask that, Izaya-kun,” I say, smarmy and irreverently—the ultimate disrespect. “Because I’m really not, and it’s all your fault.”

Izaya pretends to be innocent for the moment—unless you know who you’re dealing with, like I do, and then he’s just mocking. “What’s my fault?” he asks with teasing eyes, apparently finding no problem with my rudeness and knowledge of his actual name.

I scoff. “I’m not even going to answer that.” Take a breath. “You gotta stop, man. Seriously. Go after adults, sure, they’re old enough to take responsibility for their actions and if they’re stupid enough to be misled by you, that’s their fault. But kids? Really? You’re going to manipulate people who are all messed up with hormones and fluctuating brain chemicals? Please tell me that’s not the best you can do. I think there’s a phrase for it—pick on people your own size. This whole thing is honestly really pathetic.”

I don’t watch his face while I’m calling him out. I do notice that my words have translated properly, getting across what I wanted to, and also that I was speaking, very, very rudely and abruptly. Not unlike how they spoke in anime.

Now, though, I side-eye him.

And freeze.

He’s not intimidated. He’s not angry, or offended, or even surprised.

He’s gleeful.

“And I thought this was going to be boring,” he says with a wicked grin.

“I apologize for that,” I say, trying not to grind my teeth or let the wind go out of my sails. Of course I couldn’t one-up him. I was straightforward, honest to a fault, and literally had no room for the bullshit that people like Izaya surrounded themselves in.

“No, no need to,” he says, flapping his hands dismissively. “This turned out to be worth my time.”

My brow furrows angrily. “Excuse me?” I’m two seconds away from throwing my first ever punch and I know that it will only end badly. I remember clearly how Rio had been dangled over the side of the building with anime physics and only Izaya’s strength to rely on. Not happening to me here. “Your narcissism is even worse than I thought.”

Izaya raises a curious eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

“DSM-5,” I explain, trying not to sound angry. “You’re a malignant narcissist, which goes hand in hand with sociopathy. Antisocial personality— _you have one._ ”

Izaya hums. “I didn’t realize you knew me so well,” he replies thoughtfully.

“I thought it was pretty damn obvious.”

“How, though?” he muses. “You played your part well. Better than I thought you would be capable of. You always were disappointingly average, Kamichika Rio, or…?”

“Or…what?” I’m honestly baffled. I have no idea what he’s talking about.

“Who are you?”

I just stare at him, wide-eyed. I have no idea how to respond. There’s absolutely no way to respond to this honestly without opening a whole new can of worms.

Izaya seems excited to have the tables turned. “You see, Rio’s been pretty consistent her whole life. Boring, boring, boring,” he says almost manically. “I decided to stir the pot, see if there’s anything else besides _boring_. No one can be that plainly average.

“But now! I’m seeing a whole new part of her, what I wanted to see! There’s a problem, though.” His eyes narrow and mine narrow back, seeing where he’s going with this. Apparently, he’s been observing his project—Rio—a lot more closely than I expected. Who could have known, though? Rio was supposed to be a side project, just one of the many pies he had his fingers in.

“What’s that?” I ask suspiciously, not sure I want to know the answer.

He raises a finger. “You’re an entirely different person,” he tells me. “And you have green eyes, not brown, and there’s no sign of colored contacts. So! I want to know who my intriguing new friend is.”

I balk. “I’m Rio,” I say, trying to sound firm but completely thrown by his words. I also had no idea why my eyes were green. There was absolutely no explanation.

All I get is a clucking of his tongue. “You’re not. Let’s not lie now.” His right hand is subtly reaching for the pocket of his jacket and from that, combined with his less playful tone that’s leaning towards stern, I know I’m screwed.

“I’m not lying,” I insist, inching away from the railing.

Izaya smirks dangerously. “Why wouldn’t you be? Just tell me who you are and we won’t have any problems.”

“Honestly, I’m Rio,” I say. Shit, how is this happening? My eyes are green when Rio’s were brown. And while I wouldn’t deny there was a chance that Izaya could be suspicious of me after my accusations, I never thought that he would actually think I was a different person.

Because I’m not, not in identity. The only tip off would be the green eyes, and apparently it was enough. I silently curse to myself, then pull a childish trick out of the book that’s so stupid and reckless it might actually work.

Affecting shock, I look sharply over the railing and gasp. “What was-?”

It must have been convincing, because for a split second, his attention is off me before he realizes the ruse. I’m halfway to the door by then. It’s sad that the single one-up I was able to manage with him was a childish trick that worked only because I had presented myself maturely and there was no reason to think I’d pull something out of a five-year-old’s books.

Izaya laughs, loud and clear in the air, and I push myself harder. I’m only making myself more suspicious, but I’d rather resume this conversation somewhere public. Where he couldn’t outright hurt me without facing consequences.

So I ran.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AHAHAHAHAHAHA don't use that trick with real psychopaths, you're probably not actually going to outrun them and it's only Izaya's oozing confidence (read: arrogance) that makes him not care about following her. Also he knows where she lives. Don't worry, I plan for "Rio' to eventually get her one-up on him, but she's not quite acclimated to the world yet. Lots of things muddling her brain. Also, I don't care who you are, if you understand the nature of someone like Izaya, you would be shitting your pants and running too. I'm very proud of "Rio" for actually showing up. I sure as hell wouldn't have.


	3. Unexpected

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things go in an completely unexpected direction and "Rio" makes poor life decisions.

As I stumble out of the building, panting heavily and thighs finally burning, I see Celty.

 _Thank god,_ I think, because on the way down the stairs, wondering where I ‘d go to get away from Izaya, I realized that while some of Rio’s memories were inside me, not all of them were.

Basically, all I had was basic knowledge from the show with Rio’s input. I don’t know her address, or her friends, or what she’s doing in school—god, I don’t even know what classroom to show up to!—so basically, I’ve escaped Izaya (frying pan) and am now in the fire (real life).

And I’m still waiting for my death to stick, to disappear from this world, or whatever, even though I’m slowly starting to think I’ve been fucked, that I’ve replaced Rio for no apparent reason and now am forced to live her life as myself.

I’m not dead. I think I’ve been…shuffled around, a little.

I have no idea what to do about that, and I’m also not sure I’ll be able to find any answers. Rio was such a minor character in the show that I’d probably need a wiki page to fill in my knowledge, and, well—it’s not like there’s going to be wiki pages on real people like there would be in my world, where she’s only an anime character.

The tapping of a PDA breaks me out of my thoughts and I look up to see **Are you alright?** presented on Celty’s phone.

I sigh and don’t answer. “Can you…take me home?”

Celty pauses, then types out, **Yes. What’s your address?**

My frustrated screech of “ _FUCK!”_ is so loud I’m pretty sure Izaya could hear me if he’s still in the vicinity, which I can only assume he is.

I wish Celty had a head right then, because she doesn’t type on her PDA anymore and just seems to be staring at m. I have no way to tell what she’s thinking.

Finally, I come to a conclusion. “I’m…just going to walk.” Because the only other person who knows ‘my’ address is Izaya, and I sure as hell am not going to reveal to him that he’s right. God, I have no interest in seeing the smug look on his face if I were to come back, tail between my legs, and beg for help. Which was probably the only thing that would convince him to help in the first place: groveling.

I have had entirely too much experience with groveling to sociopaths in one life time. I’m not ever doing it again.

Celty stares some more, then nods her head hesitantly, like she’s worried but doesn’t want to interfere, and zooms away with an otherworldly neigh coming from her bike. Biting my lip, I feel tears nearly come to my eyes. I’m so fucked.

It takes a moment, but I realize that this is an abandoned building. I could probably find a room to sleep in, at least for tonight, and then solve my problems tomorrow in the daylight. Eventually, ‘my’ parents will get worried. There’ll be a search, and I’ll be happy to be found. I can claim I hit my head, no problem, and since I don’t actually have the answers that they would ask, they’ll rule it amnesia in a heartbeat. That gives an excuse and time to acclimate. Feeling better with a plan, I open the door to the building to find a room.

Instead, I face Izaya, who looks vaguely surprised, like he really hadn’t expected this turn of events.

But he hides it admirably. “Coming back so soon, Mumei-chan?” he asks with a pleased grin. “I didn’t know you enjoyed my company so much.”

I have no patience for him right now. “Oh, fuck off, asshole,” I snap as I push past him.

The next thing I know, I’m shoved up against a wall with a knife against my throat. It happens so fast I’m left reeling, and all I know is that I’m not in any real danger despite the threat Izaya’s making. Not yet.

“You’re so _rude_ ,” he says lowly but with amusement. “Rio never, _ever_ would have spoken to anyone like that.”

I’m too impulsive, I know, but I’m just _so done_. But I think I can be excused for it in this ridiculous situation. “So what if I’m not Rio?” I say snippily. “Who’re you going to tell that’ll believe you?”

Izaya grins widely, and I’ve never seen anyone in my life so happy because of something I said. “No one,” he replies. “It’ll be our _secret_.”

“You’re not going to be able to blackmail me,” I tell him firmly. He raises an eyebrow like he’s skeptical, or he didn’t see it coming. “If you knew what my situation was, you’d know you can’t even touch me with all your ridiculous mind games.”

His eyes narrow, but he’s not any less pleased. “Is that so? What is your…situation, then?”

I eye his grip on the knife. It’s loosened a bit, and I think I might be able to push him away if I can keep him off guard for just another second, but he sees where my eyes go and he firms his grip.

That thought trashed, I make eye contact and deadpan, “I’m a dead woman from another world, a world where you’re an anime character.”

Izaya’s eyes widen for a moment, like he can’t believe I just said something so ridiculous, and then he bursts out laughing, high-pitched and so, so happy.

I take the moment of distraction to kick him in the shins and shove him away from me. He doesn’t even try to stop me, and I figure maybe he thinks I’m just off my rocker and I’ve lost his interest now. So, without any further violence, I move past him at last and start walking away.

Izaya catches his breath abruptly, as though he’d been faking, and catches my wrist before I start to ascend the stairs. “Did you watch the anime?” he asks.

I turn around and stare at him. I can’t not at this point. “Parts of it,” I admit. “I didn’t finish it.”

“Did I win?”

“Does the villain ever really win anything in anime?” I asked pointedly. “I know in Season Two you get stabbed and end up in the hospital.”

He looks at me contemplatively. “Do I die?”

I shrug. “Not to my knowledge. Unfortunately.”

Izaya smiles at me. “You’re so much more interesting than Rio.”

“It doesn’t take a lot to be more interesting than her,” I admit. I know he doesn’t believe me, so there’s no reason to bullshit here, and the more I tell the truth, the more he’ll realize I’m insane and leave me alone. “She was just a plot device in episode two to introduce how much of a psychopath you are. Basically, it’s “Hey, viewers, we got a villain here! Watch as everyone else doesn’t realize it!”

But still, he humors me. When will he leave, dammit? “And I suppose as a plot device, there’s not much information on her,” he muses. “Which means that you know nothing about her beyond the scene where she dies.”

“She doesn’t die,” I correct him, feeling a bit victorious. I don’t mention that that was only because Celty saved her.

“She was a minor character, though,” he says like he knows this already.

I shrug again.

He claps his hands together, the knife nowhere to be seen. “Alright, Mumei-chan, come along now.”

“Would you stop calling me that? I have a name.”

“It’s not Rio,” he singsongs. “And I don’t know what your real name is.” And if I have any say in it, he’ll never know.

“Also, I’m not going with you.”

He turns, eyes wide like a puppy dog’s. “But then where will you go?”

I don’t tell him my plan. “I’ll figure something out.”

“You’re missing a grand opportunity,” he tells me.

“I’m sure,” I reply dryly. “So grand, in fact, that I think I’m going to have to pass.”

“So you’ll sleep here for the night?”

“That was the plan.”

He shrugs noncommittally. “Ah, alright. Have fun, dumpster rat!”

I scowl at him, only then realizing that I’m hungry, but otherwise don’t respond. I won’t dumpster dive for food though, I know that much. I do have my dignity, after all.

It’s pretty much all I have, though.

As I head up the stairs, I hear the door shut behind Izaya as he walks out. Good riddance. A thought occurs to me, and I glance over my shoulder at the exit. It seems clear, but it’s also very dark in here, so I can’t really know, but I don’t have any idea why he would stay. I decide to focus on finding a little nest for myself.

I do, eventually. It’s a little corner by a window that allows me some light as well as ventilation—the smells in here aren’t terribly pleasant. It’s on the second floor in an isolated room at the very back of the building, so I’m not worried about hooligans finding me. Curling up in a ball—damn, Rio sure did wear some unfortunately short shorts, I’m getting ick all over my legs instead of removable clothing—I rest my head on my hands and try to get some sleep. It’s going to be a long day tomorrow.

* * *

 I wake up in the middle of the night to a shadow standing over me, but before I can scream, I get a hard kick to the head. Someone snaps, panicked, “She’s supposed to be unharmed, idiot-”

And then I’m unconscious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is so short! It's kind of an interlude between the first two chapters and the meat of the story. We haven't met Plot yet, and I don't know if we will or if this is just going to be mingling with characters and shenanigans, but I hope you all are enjoying! <3


	4. The Psychopath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the lovely comments and kudos! You guys are great!
> 
> This is the next chapter. I swear, I don't think I've churned out so many chapters consistently, especially for the same story, in a while. I don't know how long I'll stay this inspired, but I'm really loving this story, so hopefully it keeps up!

When I wake up, I’m on a soft, comfortable surface in a room with only a sliver of golden sunlight filtering through the curtains. Which is weird, because my apartment doesn’t have curtains, only blinds, although I’ve been meaning to install them because one does not simply defeat the sun with thin white plastic.

I remember the Boromir meme and chuckle to myself, quietly but just loud enough to realize that it isn’t my voice laughing: this one is too feminine and high-pitched, and everything returns in a blinding flash of memory.

The moment the memories hit me, I’m sitting upright immediately, only for my vision to spin and my head to throb painfully from the abrupt movement. However, my realization of the possible danger I’m in makes it so that I bite my lip instead of crying out, instead just reaching to clutch my head until it stops aching. After a moment, the pain becomes manageable and my eyes dart around the room, cataloguing what I can in the dim light. First of all, I should not be somewhere this nice. It’s not my room at home, and it’s also not the dirty office that I had settled down in to sleep for the night. It’s also not dark out, which means that time has passed. Given the strength of the light coming through the curtains, I can feel certain that it’s at least past noon.

I’m not one to believe in gendered interior decorating, but this room is decidedly masculine nonetheless. It’s not really anything about the room itself, it’s just that there’s this… _feel_ to it that tells me it’s a guy’s room, not a girl’s. I’m not sure how to feel about that other than alarmed, because it’s looking like I’ve been kidnapped by a rich man, and if the words I vaguely remember through a pulsing brain are true, I’d been ordered to be brought to him undamaged.

That probably means nothing good for me, so I decide I have to get out of here. No one else is going to save me, that’s for sure. Yeah, I won’t show up for Rio’s school today, but that won’t be reported until the end of the day. _Even so_ , it’s not like Rio had left home yesterday evening and told her mom, “Hey, just going out to meet a guy to commit suicide with! Here’s where you can find my body!” Even if she had somehow gotten away with it, Izaya had changed plans at the last minute, so really…

If I don’t save myself, I’m fucked.

Rio is an attractive enough girl, after all, and with her being petite and slim all the way around—Rio doesn’t exactly excel in curviness—she’s a pedophile dream.

I can only image that if I have, in fact, been kidnapped by a rich pedophile, that the information of my whereabouts was sold to him. I even have a particular informant in mind who I doubt would be above such things.

_Ugh, get yourself together._

I take a deep breath. I’m not tied up, which is a plus. I wander over to the window to look out the curtains, just to see if this place is somehow on the first floor.

A quick look at the ground below me and the gleaming tops of buildings around me, I can most definitely say that jumping would be a bad idea unless I really was trying to commit suicide. Still, with the knowledge of what some sexual predators can and will do, that might end up looking like a good idea if I stay long enough.

When I check the door leading out into the condo or apartment, whichever, I find myself facing a gorgeous living room that looks vaguely familiar, but I don’t really recognize it. All I know is that I’ve seen it somewhere before.

It doesn’t matter. I take a good look around to see if anyone’s there, and from the looks and sounds of it, no one’s home. Whoever had kidnapped me was a fucking idiot, and never have I been so glad for someone else’s stupidity. I don’t let that sink in, though; I just rush for the front door as fast as I can.

Only to collide with someone who had just come inside the door I was trying to exit through.

We fall in a tangle of limbs, and I could feel the body beneath me, firm, muscled, and already reaching to grab me. Barely taking a look at the guy, because he was definitely a guy and I knew that better than I would ever want to, I scramble up and try to get to the closed door and reopen it.

Two hands on my ankles sent me flying to the floor and somehow I end up hitting my head in the exact same spot it had been kicked the night before.

“Shit—fuck—let me _go-”_ escapes me as white stars dance in front of my eyes and I cradle my screaming head, still trying to crawl towards the door.

“Calm down, Mumei-chan,” a familiar voice says, and there’s a comforting hand on my back. As soon as I realize who the hand belongs to, I flinch away.

“Ugh, seriously, you—you piece of shit—just leave me alone god _dammit_ jesus fuckin’-”

“Now, now, language, Mumei-chan! You sure sound like a sailor! Poor Rio would be _appalled_ if she knew you were using her mouth like that.”

Orihara Izaya is such a piece of shit. I can only groan in exasperation and let myself fall back against the floor, making sure my head isn’t jarred.

“Here, let me go get you an ice pack,” he says, and I hear him start walking away. Soon enough, though, he’s back and pressing the cold compress right where it hurts the most. I can’t help it; I sigh in relief.

“Bet you have a bunch of these, with how much Shizuo kicks your ass all the time,” I say with the intent to offend.

“Only the one, I’m afraid,” Izaya replies, ignoring my antagonism blithely. “Let’s get you to the couch, it’s much more comfortable.”

I open my eyes long enough to glare at him. “You’re being a somewhat decent human being,” I say. “What the hell.”

Izaya smirks knowingly but doesn’t say anything, then grabs the hand that’s not applying pressure to my head and drags me to my feet.

The room spins as he leads me to the living room I had bypassed so quickly. “I have a concussion,” I inform him. Something clicks and I can’t believe I didn’t realize it before. “The guys you had kidnap me kicked me in the head to make sure I was unconscious.”

Izaya hums politely, like he’s focused on other things. “I know. That’s why they were only paid half.”

I gape at him. “How are you even real.” But I’m stupid for asking, because he _isn’t_ real.

He ignores this as well and sits me down on the sectional before sprawling out lazily across the rest of it, closing his eyes and relaxing. For a long moment, no one says anything.

However, I’m not going to sit here in the dark, not while I still have my wits about me. It’s probably only a minor concussion, but as long as I’m lucid, I can defend myself. I don’t want to waste that time. “Why am I here?”

Izaya cracks an eye open to observe me. “Why do you think you’re here?”

“Is it in your nature to be obtuse or are you really just that stupid? I’m asking because I _don’t know_.”

He shrugs. “Guess.”

I try to think of any singular reason why he would kidnap me. The only thing I can think of is why any guy would kidnap a girl, and I know that’s not the case with Izaya. The other thing that comes to mind is that he took pity on me, which, no. Psychopaths don’t feel that kind of thing; they’re literally defined by the inability to feel empathy. So that means that I must be useful to him or benefit him in some way, and it occurs to me that maybe he really _did_ believe me when I told him my ‘origin story.’

It clicks. “You know, I didn’t even finish season one,” I tell him. “I only know you get stabbed in season two because I saw it somewhere and thought it was hilarious. I can’t help you do what you’re trying to do, and I wouldn’t even if I could.”

Izaya’s eyes snap open and he gets that annoyingly pleased grin on his face. “Maybe I just like your company.”

I scoff. “Yeah fucking right. All I do is insult you and try to get you to leave me alone.”

It’s very disturbing when his grin just widens. “Maybe I like that.”

“…um.” I can’t really say anything to that. Izaya’s a villain, and if there are any likes or dislikes he has, they weren’t outlined to me by the show. However, he likes to manipulate people and make them need him, so maybe I was a project? If he could break me, and he believed the reasons I hated him, then that would boost his ego. He’d be insufferable.

Also, that would never happen, no matter how hard he tried.

But my mouth doesn’t reflect any of those thoughts. “That’s not your pattern,” I tell him. “You like to have people like you, need you, and I don’t like _or_ need you.”

“Is that so? You don’t need me?”

He sounds so sure of himself that I falter, and then I remember with panic my thoughts from before.

Izaya, with all his contacts and information and steel-trap mind, is probably the only one who can help me in the sticky situation I’ve found myself in, without any of Rio’s memories. My other plan to be found and claim amnesia was solid, too, but would also be much messier. The story would hold up with the wound to my head, but how could I claim to have lost sixteen years of my life? I wouldn’t know _anything_ , not even my birthday, and in the light of day, I don’t think that story would hold up under a CT scan. Also, the worrying parents—people I didn’t even know—the hovering, the restrictions, the hospital stay, all of it, suddenly sounded horrible once I was thinking about it.

I swallowed hard. I might honestly, truly need Izaya in this situation. There was no one better to help me than him, the only person crazy enough to believe that I wasn’t just a whack job who also would keep it a secret if only it would indebt me to him.

“I hate you,” I mumble angrily.

Izaya pats my head condescendingly and I jerk away from him with a snarl, only to regret it when my head throbs. “I’m glad you’re so smart, Mumei-chan. I don’t have to explain things to you all the time.”

“Just,” I hesitate, “What are you getting in return for this? Because I’d rather restart my life somewhere else than be forced into unlimited favors that I don’t even want to do. Name a price and I’ll tell you if I can meet it. No carte blanche or non-negotiable.”

“Look at you, Mumei-chan! You’re so cute!” Izaya coos, and when I glare at him, he just grins. After a moment, though, he gets down to business. “First, I want your name. Your actual name.”

“Why?”

“Why does anybody want another person’s name?”

I think about it for a minute. “My real name is-”

I stop.

I think.

I start to panic.

Oh my god.

I—no. No. This can’t be-

“I don’t know,” I gasp, almost hysterical. “I knew it yesterday, but-!”

Izaya watches me break down in a panic and doesn’t do anything. He just watches. I don’t know how long it takes me to recover, but by the end I know I’ve cried at least a little and my face is flushed and I’ve been breathing hard and fast. Panic attack, then. I was familiar with those like the back of my hand, but I hadn’t even tried any of the coping mechanisms I had been taught Before. Instead, it was easier to just ride it out, because really? One of these had been coming since I first woke up in _an anime character’s body._

On top of that, who wouldn’t have a panic attack after losing their name forever? I’d been me, defined by that name, for over two decades. I’d been happy with it, hadn’t wanted to change it or call myself otherwise, and it felt like I just lost something very precious to me irreparably. It felt like I had just gone through an identity crisis, and I knew that many more were on the horizon.

I had lost that crucial piece of information overnight, and I knew that it wasn’t from the kick to the head. Being here, in another world, where my soul really didn’t fit, probably meant that I was going to lose pieces of myself, small and big, over time. Whether through nobody being around to affirm things or simply forgetting with time or having things snatched from me by some otherworldly force, I wasn’t sure, but I knew that forgetting my name wasn’t natural. Somebody actually was behind this, though I wasn’t sure if it was sentient or not. What I know for certain is that I really wish I had stayed dead.

Wiping my face, I pull myself together and take a deep breath, remembering a nickname I had had once upon a time and translating it into Japanese. “Just call me Aoi. I can’t remember my real name anymore.”

Izaya gazed at me steadily before nodding. “Why Aoi?”

“My hair was blue for like two years of my life straight, so people I met while I had it called me Blue.”

His eyebrow raises skeptically and he smiles slowly, though I’m not sure what’ss making him smile that way. “Your hair was blue?”

I stare at him. “Bright, ocean blue,” I deadpan. “What next?”

Izaya doesn’t even hesitate. “Second, I want everything you _do_ know about everyone this little ‘anime’ you told me about.”

“No spoilers,” I reply.

Izaya shrugs. “I don’t need them.” His eyes tell me he’s planning on getting them from me one way or another. I hope my eyes tell him that that will never happen.

“Okay then. I’ll write them down for you later. What else?”

“You’re going to work for me.”

“Yeah, no,” I reply dryly. “I’m staying out of the plot. You can’t convince me otherwise.”

He must have seen that I really wouldn’t be moved, or maybe he just didn’t care enough about this specific favor to push. “Then you’re losing part of what you need from me.”

“What part?” I ask, eyes narrowing at how vague he was.

“You either work for me or you don’t,” he replies with a bright, insincere grin. He must want me to work for him after all, if he’s pushing me into a corner.

That also means that there’s something specific he has in mind for me, which is never a good thing with a person like him. “Then I lose that part of your deal,” I reply. He’s not moved by it either way, whether annoyed or if I had done exactly as he wanted, so I’m left with a kernel of doubt that I had made the right decision. Wasn’t going to take it back, of course.

“That about sums it up, then,” Izaya says. “Now, let me show you around.”

“Sorry,” I say, not sorry at all, “but I’d really just like to get back home and try to integrate with a teenager’s life.” _Which is going to be utter hell,_ I don’t say out loud.

“How do you even know where home is?” he asks mischievously.

“There were flashbacks that at least showed me what it looked like,” I snap, fed up. “Skip the tour and tell me what I need to get by as Rio.”

“But you’re _not_ Rio, so why pretend to be her?”

This takes me totally aback. What is it with Izaya and wrecking my preconceptions about everything? Yeah, sure, I’m not Rio at heart, but it just makes sense to be her as best as I can. I’m not meant to be here, after all, and Rio has loved ones, scorned by her or not. And I know that, without my accidental interference, Rio would have gone back to being a regular angsty teenager instead of a situationally depressed one. At the very least her parents deserve their daughter, and her friends deserve her back, and…

_I’m not Rio._ And I’m not a very good actor, either. I can’t pretend to be a meek, polite girl without losing myself in the process, and after everything I’ve been through, I will absolutely not do that again.

I narrow my eyes at him suspiciously. “Why are you saying these things? How are they benefitting you?”

Izaya doesn’t even bother to acknowledge that I’d spoken. “Tour?” he asks cheerfully.

Still stuck in my thoughts about how I was going to become Rio without losing Aoi—the best substitution for my current self without my actual name—I follow him silently around the condo, not really paying much attention but nodding and affirming at the appropriate times.

“This is your room,” Izaya says as he steps into a room across from the one I’d woken up in. He spread his arms wide as though showcasing the place, though it’s really not anything more than a glorified guest room. Everything is neutral, I notice, beige carpet and walls, only the extravagant bed in the center having any real color at all. The comforter and pillowcases are a navy blue and the sheets are a stark white against them. I take it all in, including the dresser and the bonsai trees and how everything is so personally impersonal.

And then his words catch up to me.

“ _My_ room?” I demand. “I thought that you were going to get me set up with what I need to know and then I’d be on my way!”

“That was what you gave up since you won’t work for me,” he says brightly, shamelessly.

“You…said I’d have to work for you because you knew I’d refuse,” I deduced. “So you actually wanted me to stay here and tricked me into accepting. You dirty, conniving little-” Fury clouds my mind further with every word.

Izaya interrupts, placing a hand on his cheek bashfully and waving his hand at me. “Stop that, you’re making me blush!”

I growl at him and barely restrain myself from tackling him, armed or not. Thankfully, logic reasserts itself just in time and I spit out, “Why do you want me to stay with you? I’m not one of your projects.”

“Of course not,” he replies, still shameless. “You’re my _friend._ ”

I physically recoil from him at that, and I know disgust is shown liberally on my face. “No, I’m really fucking not.”

“I may not be your friend, but you’re mine~” he singsongs in a deliberately grating tone. I seriously am rethinking not using physical violence when Izaya stops toying with me and becomes serious. “You’re an anomaly,” he says, a vicious and victorious smile on his face. “I found you first, and I’m going to keep you _close.”_

That’s probably the first real insight to Izaya’s motivations concerning me in the entire time I’ve known him. I memorize his words and replay them. I’m an anomaly—he’s fascinated by me. And, since as a psychopath he doesn’t really see me as human, I’m basically a new, interesting pet that he’s going to figure out until he’s satisfied or bored. I have no idea what happens then, but it’s probably not good.

I wouldn’t count my death out of the picture.

Finally feeling something like genuine fear around him, I know that I have to cooperate for now. I’m not going to expect him to let his guard down around me just because I act complacent; someone like Izaya _never_ lets his guard down. But I can maybe, just maybe, earn some freedoms that will allow me to escape, get help, and then go to America. I’m pretty sure that while it’ll be accented, my fluency in English will get me through the worst of it and I can rebuild there.

The logistics can come later. All I know is that I need to get the fuck out of here before things get too serious.

Also, my knowledge about Durarara!!, Ikebukuro, and everything else that I remember from the show, needs to be safeguarded jealously. Anything that could be weaknesses of character, or could change the plot in even a miniscule way, or was otherwise dangerous in Izaya’s hands could never escape me.

Let it be officially recorded here that I wish had never taken the chance that Izaya wouldn’t believe me about my story. Yes, it had been a rough day/death, but that didn’t excuse making myself interesting to a person who _only_ cares about interesting things.

At length, I sigh and cross my arms. “Fine.”

“I didn’t know you were so weak-willed, Aoi-chan,” he says, feigning surprise.

“You don’t know anything about me,” I snap back at him. “So this is my room. Great. I think I’d like a nap.”

Izaya sighs. “You’re no fun, Aoi-chan.”

My eye twitches. “You know I’m older than you, right? I should be calling _you_ Izaya-kun, and you really shouldn’t be so informal with me. We’re strangers.”

“Maybe in spirit, but as far as I’m concerned, Aoi- _chan,_ ” he emphasizes, “you’re sixteen years old and I’m your senpai. Maybe you should be more respectful.”

I know I’m not going to win this one, but being referred to so informally, even though the culture isn’t as ingrained in me as it could be, makes me feel like he’s taking subtle jabs at me, looking down on me. Which, of course, he is, but god do I want him to stop. I’m not some dog to be domesticated and every part of me screams at me to make that clear.

But it’s simply not in his brain chemistry. He literally has a deformed brain, and things don’t function the way they’re supposed to, so it’s really, really not worth the effort. I don’t think it’s going to stop pissing me off, though.

“Sleeping now,” I say wearily, unable to stand his presence any longer. I roughly shove him towards the door, and he laughs, but when I do it again because he hasn’t moved enough for me to shut the door, he catches my wrist in a painful grip.

“Watch it, Aoi-chan,” he murmurs lowly, tightening his fingers briefly and I can’t help but wince. “You’re in my house now.”

When I don’t respond, his hand jerks my wrist around until it hurts and is in danger of snapping. “Fine, fine!” I shriek, tugging away frantically. “I get it!”

He smiles. “Good.” My hand is released and he leaves with a lackadaisical wave. “I’ll see you in two hours, Aoi-chan!”

My door shuts behind him and I fall to my knees, not scared, not upset, but so _fucking_ furious. No one touches me that way. _No one_ has the right to hurt me like it’s nothing. The rage I feel as I realize that I’ve just ended myself up in an abusive ‘relationship’—different than before, certainly, but abusive nonetheless and in likely worse ways, with no pretense of humanity or illusions of willingness. At least Before, the man I’d been with had pretended to romance me in the beginning, trapping me too late for me to see. Here, I know better. Izaya is definitely not attracted to me—or, I think, anyone—in a way that smacks of romance in the slightest. That’s obvious. Psychopaths might take advantage of willing sexual partners, but there’s stone cold certainty about that aspect of him and I don’t believe for a second that Izaya is a rapist. It’s not his MO. If he’s not outright asexual, any man or woman he sleeps with will likely adore him through only vague effort of his own. It’ll be liaisons of opportunity, nothing else.

That means I don’t have to worry about rape, which is a relief, but it’s also worse. I’d know afterwards, Before, that if that man had ever hit me, I’d have been able to get away, free myself of his mind games. Physical abuse had always been my limit and would have cleared away the cobwebs. How unfortunate that he hadn’t before the end.

So while I’m glad that some methods of subjugation are off the table, the realization that I could be forced to revert back to abused woman, could have my mind twisted and shaped until I’m that weak little girl I had been once upon a time, has me near vomiting. I retreat to my bed and resolve to up the speed in which I make my escape.

I don’t sleep. I plan.

 


End file.
